You Get What You Need
by KhakiGrrl
Summary: Edited to update the link to the "parent" story. Preseries AU. What happens after Sam is permanently injured in a hunt nine months into what would have been his freshman year at Stanford... if he had gone to Stanford.


You Get What You Need

Author: khakigrrl

Rating: PG to PG13-ish

Disclaimers: If I owned them, I wouldn't have a mortgage.

Prerequisites: This is an AU continuation of the amazing AU fic "Beneath the Trees, Where Nobody Sees" by minviendha at http: [slash] [slash] community [dot] livejournal [dot] com [slash] ficviendha [slash] 91918 [dot] html . She kindly let me play in her section of the SPN sandbox, and her story *MUST* be read first to have any idea what's going on.

Author's note: This was only supposed to be a hurt/comfort drabble. How the heck did it get so big? And so sappy! It's goes to perhaps to OOC-levels, though my John Winchester!muse doesn't seem to think so. Darn him!

Summary: You can't always get what you want.

Five days after the "bear mauling" (wendigo hunt), you dream of fire. Not the smell of it, not even really the heat of it, just the pain. Nerve endings setting off klaxons throughout your body.

You wake to the sensation that someone's dropped your legs in boiling oil, like you're cooking in your own juices. Tingling? Pins and needles? This is nothing like the doctors warned about.

You want to move, to thrash, to grab your legs and *make* them stop hurting, but you're tied down. Your hips are attached to weights that would be steadily tugging you down the length of the bed if your chest wasn't strapped down tight.

Deprived of the slightest defense, you pant, groan, want to scream but can barely croak, "D'n."

He's always there. Has always been there since before you can remember. Your guard, your protector, your brother.

And there, familiar hands rubbing at your arms, pushing back your hair, cupping your face, offering comfort. Just knowing he's there helps. You know he's saying something, can hear the rumble of his voice, but you can't concentrate over the agony flooding your lower body.

There's other hands, too. Doctors, nurses, it doesn't matter. They aren't helping. They'd said you were paralyzed. Couldn't move or feel your legs at all. They'd said you were lucky none of the higher slashes from the "bear" had been as deep as the slash across your lower back that tore through your spine. They're dumbasses.

You spare enough air between gasps to tell them so. Along with your opinion of their parentage, the quality of their educations, and what anatomically impossible things they should do with themselves and their degrees.

Someone huffs out a laugh to your right and you want grab 'em and share some of what you're going through, but a warm rush floods your arm and sudden exhaustion starts to pull you away from the pain. You go willingly.

The pain never really goes away after that. Central pain, they call it. Something to do with how the nerves are rewiring themselves telling you there's pain where there shouldn't be anything at all, at least not now.

You're topped off with morphine, then codeine, then other narcotics, trying to find one that works without making you sleep all the time.

You don't really mind the sleeping. It's easier, and it's not like there's much else to do, besides suffer. And watch John and Dean watch you suffer.

At first, the doctors try pills, then IV injections, then injections right into your spine that make Dean pale and your father step out of your line of sight. Those, the nerve blocks, work the best, and soon, you've got your very own surgically-implanted pump.

Once they've got your treatment worked out to the point that you don't feel like screaming all the time...at least not about the pain...you're shipped off to a nursing home (rehabilitation center).

You wait.

You get fitted for braces, learn to use the machines with your P.T., figure out your "bowel program" with the occupational therapist so you don't shit in the wrong place at the wrong time.

You watch Dean and your father trade off, coming and going. You know they're probably struggling with paying all the medical bills, but you don't ask them how they're finding the money. You don't ask them much of anything. They ask you the same questions every day and you find yourself giving the same, generic answers.

Mostly, though, you just wait.

Your father's going to leave soon. He's got to. You can't remember the last time he's gone so long without a hunt. In your darker moments, you wonder if Dean will go with him.

He doesn't say anything about it, though. Dean doesn't either.

Dean. He's like the anchor of a network morning program, all false cheer and enthusiasm. Talking about how you're getting better and how everything's gonna turn out, you'll see.

"Just wait 'til we get outta here, Sammy. These doctors don't know shit about hoodoo or hunting. We'll get you fixed up good as new."

John. He's quiet. He lets Dean fill up all the silent spaces. He speaks up when asked or addressed, but he doesn't volunteer much. It's not an angry kind of silence. Or a distracted one, either. It's not uncomfortable. It's not like anything you've come to expect from him.

"It's a laptop," you say.

"So I've been told," John says.

"But..."

You don't know how to finish that sentence.

You'd asked for a laptop, pretty consistently, since they'd been invented. "Dean and I can use it for school, Dad... It'll be great for hunting, Dad... We can save trunk space by scanning old books, Dad... Why won't you even think about it, Dad?"

Now, when you're done with school, when you're useless as a hunter, now he gives you a laptop?

"But..." you continue, as he hasn't filled the silence with any explanation. "...why?"

"Thought you could use the distraction," he answers.

And you could. You really could. It's gotten to the point where you look forward to the torture of physical therapy, the embarrassment of occupational therapy, the uncomfortable hedging and dodging of emotional therapy, just to have something to do.

"Thanks," you say, meeting his eyes.

He nods with a hint of a smile, but doesn't say anything else.

"Is there something you'd like me to look up?" you ask, feeling the need to return the favor. To show some of the gratitude you're feeling.

"Like what?" he asks, seeming genuinely interested.

You look down, opening the screen and powering it up as you answer, "Like a hunt?"

You hedge when he doesn't answer, "Or, you know, something?"

"It's your laptop," he says with a shrug, then changes the subject to how you're feeling.

Dean commandeers the laptop on his next visit.

"Big brother's prerogative," he justifies.

You don't really care. The morning P.T. had been tough, at one point climbing and descending three stairs in the gym, and you're ready for a nap.

When you wake up, Dean's already gone and it's a few hours 'til your father arrives for the evening shift.

You open the laptop, and there's an old letter folded on the keyboard. You haven't seen it in months, but you recognize the stationery. It's the Stanford acceptance letter. Dean's found it in your duffle and apparently felt that now would be the perfect time to pull it out.

Asshole.

You want to punch something, more specifically someone, but he's conveniently gone.

There's a naked, artificially-endowed Asian woman on the background of the laptop screen when you power it up, and the internet browser's favorites list has been filled up with porn sites...and the Stanford homepage.

You delete them all, clear the cache, shutdown the laptop, and fold the acceptance letter into a book on your end table. Then you turn on the TV.

Maury's interviewing a family of "freaks" with lobster-like hands and feet.

You shut off the TV and roll over.

Dean didn't mention the letter the next day, or the rest of the week, but you know it's coming. He's just been distracted by the "good news."

They're talking about moving you to the outpatient program, sending you "home" soon. You wonder where that'll be.

John's still here. That surprises you, but you suppose it's probably something to do with money. Dean wouldn't be able to keep on top of what this place must be costing, even with a big need-based discount. But once you're out, your father'll be free to start hunting again.

You're pretty sure Dean won't go with him, and that thought makes you equally guilty and relieved.

Maybe you should call Bobby or Pastor Jim, someone with a fixed address and a spare room they'd put you up in while you get back on your feet. Bobby does have that big library; you could help him research.

But you don't want that. You don't really want much of anything. Not anything you can have anyway.

You've graduated from wheelchair to walker to crutches to two canes. And that's where they think you'll stay. You might be able to get away with one cane for short walks, but that's it. And 'cause your legs are pretty useless from the mid-thigh down, you'll always have to wear the leg braces.

It's awkward, picking up and adjusting your legs across the back seat of the Impala after you sit down. Dean keeps making aborted gestures, like he wants to help you get comfortable, but is holding himself back.

You take up twice as much room now, so the detritus of your lives have been crowded into the trunk, blocking the hidden weapons compartment. Your father never allowed it to get so full before. As he'd explained, "You never know when you need something fast."

Will that be the reason you're left behind, like so many of your childhood toys and treasures? _Sorry, Sammy. You know the drill. Essentials only._

But no one's going anywhere today. Well, not anywhere but to the extended-stay motel John and Dean have apparently been renting. It's nicer than anywhere you've lived since that house in Cincinnati John'd gotten cheap during your sophomore year of high school.

Dean takes you on a tour of the ground floor unit, and you realize why they chose it the second he shows you the bathroom. It's set up with an oversized, wheelchair accessible shower, a water-proof stool, and grab-bars everywhere. It's for you. The damaged man you are now, and will always be.

You'd gotten used to using handicap-access amenities at the hospital, but seeing it here, in yet another of the endless motel rooms that've passed for home most of your life, is a shock. You really aren't ever going to be the same again.

Dean seems to sense your discomfort and leads you back to the bedroom, but you aren't paying much attention to what he says anymore.

Things continue in a similar routine to that of the hospital for the rest of the week. You still have therapy sessions that keep you busy all morning, and time in the afternoon for a nap before you do your "homework": walking around the block, stretching, checking the numb parts of your legs for any possible injuries you can't feel, tracking your food and water intake on your "bowel schedule" (hidden in an Excel file deep within your laptop).

The difference is that now you can see (or maybe you're just paying attention to) how John and Dean are coping. Or rather, how John and Dean are avoiding each other.

You'd known they'd fought in the months before the wendigo hunt, had even walked in on them once, but that tension was nothing like this. Back in the hospital, you'd thought they took turns visiting so you wouldn't be alone for too long. Now you realize that they've arranged their work schedules almost directly opposite of each other. John's even purchased a used black truck, a deal from a coworker at the garage, so they're not sharing the Impala.

In those short hours they both happen to be home at the same time, they hardly look at each other, let alone speak.

It's about you. The wendigo hunt. Has to be. And being around them, talking about inane, generic things, dancing (in the only way you can now) around the elephant in the room, you're beginning to understand what Dean must've gone through all those years you'd fought with your father.

The pressure in the room whenever they're together is unnerving. And neither of them will say anything about it. There are no shouting matches, no accusations and recriminations thrown back and forth, just this ever increasing weight above you all.

It's hurting both of them, and it is your fault, so you pull out your laptop and go to work. There's nothing wrong with your hands or your mind. You can still do this, and you've made your choice.

"I found a hunt," you say into the quiet of the room. "Not that far from here. It looks like..."

"No." Dean says loud and firm as he stands up from the bed he'd been reclining on.

"But, it's not much more than..."

"I said no, Sammy," Dean repeats, moving to stand over you.

"Dean," your father interrupts. "If he..."

Dean spins and fixes John with an angry glare.

"Don't you start. I told you. It's settled. He's going to school. He's getting out of this godforsaken..."

"What?" you ask in surprise. "Dean, what the hell?"

Dean turns and sits beside you on your bed. "I've been meaning to tell you, Sammy. I talked with the admissions office at Stanford and you're starting in the fall. The scholarship isn't as good as the one last year, but it still covers books and tuition. I can help you out with room and board 'til you get a job. It's perfect. Just what you wanted."

He softens his voice, "I'm sorry. If I'd stood up for you last year, you never would've..."

"Stop," you say. You'd been momentarily stunned into silence as he laid out his plans, but you won't listen to him taking the blame for your legs.

"But, Sammy," he says, and his voice rises with a touch of hurt.

"No, Dean. I told you before."

"That was before, Sammy. You can't possibly think you can still hunt."

"I'm not useless," you cut him off. You want to get up and pace, work off some of this heat that's building inside of you, but you know you'd just end up making his point for him.

"I didn't say that."

"You were thinking it."

"No, Sam, I swear. I just," he runs a hand through his hair. "I just... You don't know what you looked like. A quarter of an inch Sam, a quarter of an inch and you would've bled to death. Nothing I or Dad," he says, tilting his head towards your quiet father, "or anyone else could've done to save you. I can't watch that happen to you again."

"But it's different for you? For him?" you ask, waving at hand at your father.

"We're not..." Dean stops, probably trying to think of some PC-friendly term.

"Crippled," you continue for him.

"I didn't say that."

"But you meant it."

"Sammy..." he starts.

"Dean," you answer in a whiny parody. He makes a face, but doesn't say anything so you continue. "The truth is that either one of you could be sitting here instead of me. The truth is that both of you have a lot more scars than I do. I don't want to be halfway across the country and get the call that you're dead."

"You didn't mind so much last year," he mutters under his breath, but you still hear.

"I didn't go last year," you say, steely. "I made my choice."

"The wrong one," he replies, just as hard.

You stare at him, keeping eye contact, but you don't say anything else.

He breaks first, getting up, grabbing his jacket and keys, and slamming out the door.

You roll onto your side on the bed, curling up as much as you can without sitting up and repositioning your legs.

You stay like that for a minute... two... and then you see movement out of the corner of your eye, hear the rustle of fabric, and your father sits down on the far corner of your bed.

"Sam," he says, voice gravelly, but not harsh.

"Please, sir," you practically whisper, tied up with warring emotions. "I don't want to fight anymore."

"I don't either," he says, voice still soft. "I just wanted to say..."

He pauses, clears his throat. "I'm sorry."

"It wasn't your fault," you answer, resigned. "You got that wendigo as fast as you could."

"Not about that," he interrupts. "Though I am sorry about that, too," he amends. "I wanted to apologize about last year, about what I said."

He sighs, rubs a hand across his face.

"I never should have said that to you."

Your throat tightens and you can feel moisture building in your eyes.

"I was angry," he continues. "Not that that's any excuse, but I... Well, I still want you stay. There's more you can learn, self-defense moves to get the guy down on the ground, where your legs won't be a problem. You're great at the research," he huffs, "better than me at the computer stuff. But that's not why."

He rubs at the back of his neck.

"I love you, son. You and Dean, you're all I have left. And the thought of you across the country, where I couldn't protect you..."

"I don't need...," you interrupt.

"No, Sam," he says. "Let me get this out."

You stay quiet and he continues, "These past months, not just after the wendigo, but before, too, I've realized something. You're not my baby anymore. You're a man."

He turns and points at you with a hint of a smile, "A *young* man. But still a man, and if I want don't want history to repeat itself, I've got to respect that."

"History?" you ask, now completely confused.

"My old man. Wanted me to stay at home when my friend Jimmy was drafted. Didn't believe in the war. Didn't want me to enlist.

"Last year, I heard his words coming out of my mouth, and I couldn't believe it. Should've taken them back the second I said 'em, but..." he shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Sam."

You'd never known that. He doesn't talk about things like that.

"What happened to Jimmy?" you ask, curious.

Your father smiles ruefully. "You know him, actually."

That throws you for a second, but then you realize, "Pastor Jim?"

"Yep, but anyway, what I'm trying to say is, I don't want you to go, but it sounds like Dean's gotten things pretty well taken care of, so if you do go... I'm still your Dad. You'll always have a place in this family."

Your cheeks are cool and wet and your vision's blurry, but you can't help but smile.

"Thanks," you say. Then, after trying to restrain a sniffle, you add, "Thanks, Dad."

Dean doesn't return for two days. When he does, he finds you and Dad packing up his old truck, getting ready to move closer to the ghost hunt you'd found about an hour away.

You can hear Metallica before you even hear the Impala's engine, he's blasting it so loud, but it disappears when he shuts off the engine.

"You guys leaving without me?" he asks getting out of the car and swinging the door shut.

"I left messages on your voicemail, and there's a note in the office," you answer defensively.

"Yeah, well, I've been busy," he deflects.

"Apparently," you respond, a bit snippily.

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

"Boys," Dad calls from the back of the truck. "Dean, c'mere and grab your bag."

Dean does, without anger to your surprise. Then, to your greater surprise, he grabs yours, too.

"Dean, I'm going with Dad."

"Ghost hunt, I heard," he responds, before throwing your duffel in the Impala's trunk along with his own. "There room for one more?"

You smile, relieved.

"Always room for one more," Dad calls from behind you as he gets into the truck and starts the engine.

"Well, c'mon, Sammy. Let's get a move on," Dean calls, walking around to the passenger side.

You're about to tell him you don't need help getting in when he tosses something across the hood to you and you drop a cane in order to catch it. They're the keys to the Impala.

You open the driver's side door and lean over to pick up the cane saying, "Dean, you know I can't..."

Then you look inside and freeze. The Impala's steering column has been modified. There are hand controls, shiny and new and most definitely out of place on the older model car.

"Dean?"

"Hop in, Sammy. S'bout time I gave you a driving lesson... Again."

You sit down and move your legs, one at a time, into the driver's footwell. The seat's already been moved back to give you enough room.

You put the key into the ignition, and with your eyes still down on the steering wheel, you say, "Thanks, Dean."

He playfully shoves your shoulder and says, "Just turn the key, bitch. We've got work to do."

The End


End file.
